


On Any Given Day

by Canon_Is_Relative



Series: In Spite of All The Danger [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-11-26
Packaged: 2017-11-17 08:01:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Canon_Is_Relative/pseuds/Canon_Is_Relative
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The city was a game board and John was lucky enough to be on Sherlock's team. Living like this, constantly on "high action mode," as John had come to think of it, with Sherlock filling every space in his life from friend to flatmate and somewhere between love and lover, had John in a constant state of mental, emotional and, yeah, he could admit it, physical arousal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> This begins the final installment in my [In Spite of all the Danger](http://archiveofourown.org/series/11841) series from last year. I had most of this written but just couldn't get it together in time to post before Series Two came along. So, yes, it's AU to the show (as my entire Danger series is, now). This follows my own idea of how things progressed after TGG. I believe this installment stands alone, but I'd never argue with you wanting to go back and read the rest!

"I knew it had to be the nephew, as soon as I saw the bedroom. But proving it...oh. _That_ was a case worth my time; _that_ is what I live for."

Sherlock had linked his left arm through John's right, holding him tight to his side as he pulled them through the slick city streets. Every few steps John had to skip to keep up, trying to hold the umbrella to cover both of them. Sherlock, however, seemed oblivious to the rain. His right side was soaked through, his hair dripping.

"John."

"Mm?"

Sherlock stopped on the corner, the storm thundering around them. The wind whipped his hair into his face and he shook it back impatiently, gazing down at John with all the intensity of a thundercloud.

John shivered, tugging on his arm. "C'mon, Sherlock. It's freezing."

Sherlock's gloved hand wrapped around the handle of the umbrella, tugging it from his grip. John let it go without protest, settling his hands instead on Sherlock's bony hips.

Sherlock looked at him, eyes blazing in his wan face, lips parted.

It was the kind of look Sherlock directed at a particularly intriguing corpse.

The kind of look he favoured a useful witness with.

The look he bestowed upon only the best and most interesting problems.

John blinked and slid his arms around Sherlock's waist, pulling him close.

Sherlock's lips on his were soft. Tender. A moment of shocking gentleness before a tremor went through him and lips and fingers became brutal, dragging John to him, trying to meld them together, demanding all of him. John's knees began to tremble. He shut off his brain and let it happen.

\---

In bed with Sherlock, lying on his back, one hand resting on his stomach, replaying that kiss.

Sherlock sighed. "All right. What is it."

John turned his head away, looking out the window opposite. When the storm had blown itself out the clouds had parted to reveal the moon, huge and freshly-scrubbed, and he hadn't drawn the curtain. The world within and without was mother of pearl edged in quicksilver, iridescent and strange.

Sherlock sighed again and turned on his side to face him. "I shouldn't have kissed you like that."

John shifted to look at Sherlock, their noses almost touching. "It's ok. I don't mind."

"Are you sure?"

John let out a long breath that stirred the hair over Sherlock's ear. "It's just...I don't know. I'm not sure how I should feel."

Against the pillow by his cheek, Sherlock's hand flexed nervously. "How do you feel?"

John huffed a soft laugh, reaching out to cover Sherlock's hand with his own. "I don't feel the urge to sleep with you. I still know that."

Sherlock's smile shimmered in the moonlight. "Good. But?"

"But when you kiss me, I kind of forget that."

"Why?"

"I don't know." John rolled onto his side to face Sherlock, slipping an arm around him, hand pressed to the small of his back. "I don't know if it's simply...if it's instinct, like, like a kiss is supposed to lead to..."

"To...something 'more'?"

"Yeah, I guess." He rubbed small circles against Sherlock's back, fighting the desire to grind against his hip, his sudden - unplanned, unwanted, unrequited - arousal making it hard to form a proper sentence.

"John. You're not gay."

"Neither are you."

"True."

"But here we are. Why? Here we are, you kissing me and me with a stiffy just at the thought of it. I thought it wasn't supposed to be like this."

Sherlock sat up with an impatient growl, swinging his feet off the bed. "After everything, you're still fixated on that?"

"On what?"

"Defining this."

"Well--Hang on, I wouldn't say fixated."

"Of course you wouldn't."

John reached out, hesitantly touching his shoulder. Sherlock didn't move. Hardly breathed. "Let's just go to sleep. Yeah?"

Sherlock turned and cupped John's face in one long hand. He nodded.

\---

John woke to gentle, but very insistent, fingers slipping beneath his waistband. He moaned softly, turning his head to meet the lips that waited for him, firm and intent and so, so enticing. Lips parting, tongues twining, hands roaming. He was rocking into Sherlock's hand before he was truly awake. And then…

"Sherlock, oh, God, what are you doing?"

"Call it an experiment."

"Not sure I'm ok with…I know you don't want...Sherlock, stop..."

"I don't want to stop. You're making the most interesting noises and the look on your face is..." Sherlock trailed off, and through the dizzy haze of sleepy arousal John registered astonishment at hearing him lost for words. But then Sherlock was clearing his throat and saying, as though remarking on the weather, "You're beautiful, John. You're stunning when you're happy."

John struggled to push himself up on one elbow, reaching up to touch Sherlock's face. "You make me happy. But you don't have to do this. Christ. Nice though it is. Sherlock. Really. You don't..."

"John?" Sherlock loomed above him, dark eyes inscrutable, hand never faltering in its rhythm.

"Yeah?" John's voice hitched as his back arched off the mattress.

"It's all right. Trust me."

\---

He lay sprawled on the edge of the bed, chest heaving. Sherlock was carefully not-touching him, giving him space.

When he had himself back under control, John pulled up his sleep pants, rolled over and wrapped Sherlock in his arms, pressing his face into his neck. Sherlock returned the embrace without hesitation.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. You're mad. We both are."

"Perhaps. Was that all right?"

John nodded, still working to bring his heart back to anything resembling a resting state.

"Good."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes."

John was crashing quickly in the wake of that...whatever that had been. Unexpected and intense - and unexpectedly intense - was what it had been, as well as the first time he'd got off with another person in… _oh, Christ, has it really been a year?_ He shuddered against Sherlock and felt him respond, holding him tight with a hand on his neck, thumb stroking the dip between C1 and C2.

_Did that really just happen? After all that awkward dancing around the facts, here we end up with his hand down my pants. Christ._

"It's all right, John, really." Sherlock's voice hummed through his skull, the crest of his head tucked under Sherlock's chin.

"Is it? I don't see how it is."

"It is. Trust me."

"I shouldn't have let you."

Sherlock snorted. "You wanted me to."

"Yeah. I did. Christ. But we don't always get everything we want, m'used to it."

"True..." Sherlock's fingers explored the line of his jaw and down to the hollow of his throat, resting there. "But it seems like this arrangement is meant to alleviate that."

"How d'you mean?"

"Isn't this why people seek out mates? To find someone to regularly provide for their wants?"

John opened his mouth to object, but then realized, _Oh. That actually sounds about right._ He cleared his throat and said, "So long as what they want is something you want to be giving."

Sherlock kissed the top of his head and found his hand, squeezing it briefly before rolling over, flopping around beneath the covers to find his preferred sleeping position. Conversation over, apparently.

John, completely exhausted, pulled the sheet up around him against the chill of cool night air over sweaty skin and the sudden removal of his human blanket, and plummeted quickly into oblivion.

\-----

"Right, I'll get you those photographs," Lestrade nodded, walking away and leaving them more or less alone. Smith was in the corner consulting with the spatter analyst, but it was only John and Sherlock standing over the body, now.

"So if you're going to be doing that for me," John said suddenly, crossing his arms and looking down at the top of Sherlock's head as he crouched over the victim's outflung hand, "I need to know what I'm doing for you in return."

"Are we assuming that last night's activities will become a regular occurrence?"

John's face suddenly burning in the cold room, he dug his hands into his pockets and looked at his shoes. "Didn't mean it that way."

"Yes you did. And it can be, if you'd like. Well. For a given value of 'regularity.' We can discuss it later."

John bit the inside of his cheek, wanting very much to run away. But he didn't, of course. _Because I'm an idiot._ Instead he cleared his throat and said, "Ok. But my question still stands. What am I doing for you?"

Sherlock looked up at him, head cocked to one side, a smile playing about his lips. "It's not obvious to you?"

"Not really, no. Beyond that you like having me around to fill in for your skull and do the shopping."

Sherlock snapped off his gloves and stood, stepping around the body to loom over John, who held his ground, looking up at him, waiting.

"You understand me," Sherlock began, then cracked a grin. "Relatively speaking, anyway. I've found that your presence is far preferable to your absence - that's a fact that has been tested and proved. You humour me when I need it, but you don't take my word as gospel when it's not warranted. In other words, you've a head on your shoulders and you use it. I'm happy when I'm with you. Did you really not know all this?"

John found himself with a dry mouth and trembling hands and not a clue what to say. Sherlock's grin melted into a soft smile and he ducked his head, brushing his lips against John's forehead, straightening just as Lestrade returned.

\-----

_When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield._

Mycroft had chosen those words specifically to reach John; tailored them for him, the grieving ex-solider. Sherlock would have scoffed at the analysis, John had known that even before the night was over, as brief as their acquaintance had been, then. This wasn't a war that Sherlock was fighting, it wasn't a battleground that he saw. He saw the playing field. The game board. Sherlock saw the strategy three moves ahead and could hold everything together perfectly in his mind. John could see him do it, too – he had a _look._ When he suddenly wasn't just looking at whatever was in front of him, he was looking _through_ it – examining in the three dimensions of his mind all its implications, laying bare past and present and intent.

 _Like he's weaving a tapestry from the threads of the universe,_ Lestrade had said once, gesturing with his pint and nearly spilling it. _And_ don't _tell him I said that._

The city was a game board and John was lucky enough to be on Sherlock's team. Living like this, constantly on "high action mode," as John had come to think of it, with Sherlock filling every space in his life from friend to flatmate and somewhere between love and lover, had John in a constant state of mental, emotional and, yeah, he could admit it, physical arousal.

Nothing more happened after that first time. Sherlock hadn't sounded averse to the possibility of reoccurrence, but John wasn't about to ask for that. He didn't really think of it as a possibility, actually. Whatever was going on between them didn't need to include… _that._ He wasn't gay. Neither was Sherlock. Sherlock didn't need that from him – _that_ was not on the short list of wants (to which John was, to his continued amazement, slowly adding mental bullet points) that John filled for Sherlock. And sexual favours from one's flatmate, especially when said flatmate is not of one's preferred gender, and even more especially when said flatmate gets no pleasure from the encounter…well. Really, the whole thing was absurd, thinking they could or should add _that_ into their equation. Their equation was already perfectly balanced in any case with cases and arguments and spontaneous kisses tasting of leftover takeout and a bed that fit one or both or neither of them comfortably.

It was an adventure. The greatest game that John had ever played in. A high unlike anything he'd known this side of Afghanistan, and living with that level of arousal was proving addictive.

But he wasn't a pig, he had himself well enough under control that he was usually able to keep himself in check. And anyway his sexual desires didn't centre around Sherlock, exactly, and the few times he woke in the night when Sherlock was in bed with him he'd able to talk himself down, get back to sleep without succumbing to his body's very normal and natural, if unplanned and inconvenient, needs.

And then then there was the weekend Sherlock spent out of town and out of touch on a case with Lestrade and John made up his mind – as he lay, for the fifth time in two days, panting and shuddering and much-too-alone in the bed that smelled of Sherlock – to address the issue with Sherlock when he got home because the pent-up frustration of not getting any, even from himself, was taking a toll on his self-control. That decision was pushed back, however, when Sherlock returned home and it came out that, rather than lying low on a stakeout with Lestrade, as John had believed, Sherlock had been lying low in the hospital with a concussion thanks to one of Lestrade's people blowing their cover.

John couldn't remember the last time he'd been so angry, nor when he'd yelled for so long or so loud. Of course it didn't help that after Lestrade had got over the initial shock of hearing John raise his voice, his impassioned defense of his flatmate seemed to be mostly _amusing_ to the son-of-a-bitch Detective Inspector.

Later that evening when they were alone in the flat, Lestrade's sly smile was echoed on Sherlock's face as he sat, barefoot and cross-legged, on the floor, watching John as he stabbed at the keys of his laptop, glaring at the screen. “You ought to apologise to Lestrade, you know.”

“I – _what_?”

The smile stretched into a grin and Sherlock nodded. “Although I don't think it will matter. He wasn't actually offended and I doubt an apology would stem the tide of gossip that he's no doubt setting in motion even now. The last time he was so chastised by a nattering spouse was when Mrs Anderson was convinced Lestrade had exposed her husband to some kind of flesh-eating spore after the Thames Strangler case. And he was nearly as amused then as he was today.”

No amount of spluttering on John's side could smooth the Cheshire Cat grin from Sherlock's face and in the end he had to be content with his assurance that Sherlock himself preferred John's nattering over anyone else's. In a huff, John went up to sleep in his own room.

 

The sound of the violin reached his dreams and he was hard and rocking against the mattress before he was awake. As the notes climbed the scale John felt his self-control coming apart at the seams, bright light rushing in through the cracks, joy and relief bearing down on him with all the force of a raging river. The bow screeched across the strings to a soaring crescendo, the river hurled itself off a cliff, and John leapt with it.

He resurfaced slowly, the deadly silence of the flat ringing in his ears along with the echo of Sherlock's name, shouted in his own voice. The walls were saturated with it, the darkened windows gazed solemnly down on him, and from below he heard nothing, not a note, not a sigh, not a footstep. Feeling completely taken apart, John allowed sleep to drag him back down without a fight, and dreamt of nothing but the sound of violins and waterfalls.

\-----

Sherlock touched John's hip to move him out of the way as he passed behind him on the way to the kitchen.

John, previously engaged with sorting through the mail – junk, junk, bills, more junk, something for Sherlock, more bills – found himself following him. Standing in front of the fridge, peering into its depths, Sherlock was muttering to himself. John stopped beside him and slid his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock stopped mid-stream and looked at him, face almost comically blank.

John grinned and pulled Sherlock down to kiss him.

Sherlock pulled away and stumbled back, face still blank, but John no longer felt like grinning.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his lips barely moving.

John gaped at him. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock licked his lips and drew himself up, beginning to recover. "This is hardly the time for--"

"For what?" John all-but shouted.

"For – that. Any of that. Whatever you had in mind. I'm too busy, John."

John's mouth was still hanging open as he stared at his friend. It was eleven o'clock in the morning and Sherlock was still in his dressing gown and shorts after stumbling out of bed all of five minutes ago.

Sherlock pulled his robe tighter around himself and swept past John, making for the bathroom. A minute later John heard him turn on the shower.

Embarrassed, annoyed, hurt, and beginning to be angry, John left the mail to sort itself and put on his jacket, heading out for a walk.


	2. Castaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This wasn't a wise idea. I'm sorry." Sherlock pushed himself farther away down the bed and wrapped his arms around his knees. "I knew it from the beginning. I shouldn't have allowed things to...transpire as they did. I can't change. Neither can you. This experiment is concluded. You had better call Mary."

“I feel bad, of course I do, and I'd never say I'm glad he's dead or anything, but...he was such a miserable old crab, he's probably happier, now. Although I could just see him, up at the pearly gates and grousing that they need a good polish and Saint Peter's greeting skills could use some work."

John laughed and tried - and failed - to think of something clever to say.

"So you're a detective too?"

"Me, no, no...I'm a doctor." John smiled at her. Couldn't help smiling at her. Her name was Mary and she'd walked into her office that morning to find her boss slumped in his desk chair, stone dead without a mark on him. And now, eight hours later, she was still cooped up in the tiny lunch room being asked the same questions over and over by a string of people with progressively worse and worse interpersonal skills. But here she was, still cheerful, still smiling. Still gorgeous.

"A doctor?" She leaned her chin on her hand and gazed earnestly at him. "What sort of a doctor? Did they bring you here to examine the body?"

"Yes- - well - yes. Yes, that's why I'm here, although I'm not really with the police. I work with Sherlock, er, Mr Holmes, the detective you spoke with awhile ago."

"Hm, the one with those great big mysterious eyes who needs a haircut and a wash and a meal?"

John laughed. "That's him."

She looked at him, eyes narrowing, murmuring, "Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson...hey, haven't I heard of you?"

John grinned, rubbing the back of his neck and feeling a blush creep across his cheeks. "Might've done, yeah."

"Were you...wasn't that you who trapped the suicide bomber in the Eye on bonfire night?"

He laughed and shrugged. "Yeah, that was me. Well - us. Ok, really it was Sherlock. I'm usually just along for the ride, with him."

She laughed, looking delighted. "Oh, this is wonderful! I _have_ heard of you. Now I'm all...fluttery. Like meeting a celebrity." She smoothed her hands over her hair, laughing at herself.

John shook his head but couldn't stop his grin. Ten minutes later they were sitting very close to each other looking down at her iPad, watching the shaky home video footage from last November that had played for days on every news station, John providing commentary and Mary exclaiming over how exciting it must have been. The door opened without warning and Sherlock was looming above them.

John looked up and the smile melted off his face. Mary looked up and smiled wider. Sherlock looked between them and his face grew dark.

"We're done here, John. Let's go."

John stood, stumbling in his haste. Mary, when he glanced at her, looked crestfallen. Sherlock didn't move from the doorway and didn't take his eyes off John.

"Here," Mary said, standing too and reaching into her purse, pulling out a little engraved case. "Will you call me, sometime?"

John blinked at her and reached out automatically to take what she offered him. Her fingers lingered against his and she gave a small smile. The room felt suddenly airless and far too warm for comfort.

"John." Sherlock held the door open, radiating impatience.

"Bye, then," she lifted her hand to both of them and Sherlock led them out. John turned the business card over in his hands. _Mary Morstan. Senior Editor - Signe & Fore Publishing House._

\---

"John."

John finished the sentence he was reading before looking up. Sherlock was gazing at him over the tips of his fingers. "Hm?"

"Would you like to go to bed?"

John frowned. "It's barely half nine."

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't have sleep in mind."

John's hand slipped in the process of turning a page and a line of red bloomed on his fingertip as the paper sliced across his skin. He hissed and sucked it into his mouth, the blood twanging across his tongue. When the sting had subsided he said mildly, inspecting the damage to avoid looking at Sherlock, "No, I'm all right, thanks."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock sounded surprised. "It's been two weeks--"

"Yes, thank you, I know. I am very...very aware of that. Thanks. But. No."

Sherlock fell silent and John, thinking this must be how it felt to be a tomato, tried to go back to his book. After he'd read the same sentence four times without getting any meaning off it, he heard rustling from Sherlock's corner and couldn't help glancing over.

Sherlock was slumped down in his chair, his impossible legs stretched out in front of him, arms folded around his torso and chin tucked into his chest. And really, it was amazing how Sherlock could go from serene to sullen in the barest handful of seconds. John tried to hide behind his book but couldn't keep it up for long.

"You're not seriously sulking because I'm not begging you-the-asexual for sexual favours?"

Sherlock's shoulders hunched up around his ears and he muttered, "You know I detest that word."

"Well until you come up with a better that's what I'm using."

He glared. "I am simply a non-sexual--"

John snorted. "After you jerked me off that night? Hardly."

Sherlock's face flushed a violent red and he sat up, pushing himself forward in his chair, seething, " _You_ do not get to define _me._ "

"Why not, I'm the one who has to put up with you!"

"Why do you, then? No one's making you."

"Oh, no, we're not going down this route again. You can sulk there all night for all the good it will do you, I'm going to bed. To _sleep._ " He flung his book down, glaring at Sherlock, and marched into Sherlock's bedroom. Their bedroom. _The bedroom._

It wasn't even ten minutes later that the door opened and Sherlock slipped through. John had undressed and was lying in bed with the light off, staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock stepped up on to the bed and settled cross-legged down by John's feet. He didn't reach out for him or speak for a long time.

John felt something in the silence between them that set his heart pounding in his throat. Everything felt too-tight and his head throbbed dully with each silent second that ticked by.

"Even if I could change," Sherlock spoke finally, his voice seeming to come from the darkness all around, "I wouldn't. Not even for you. I might want to, but as I can't it's an irrelevant point. I've come to disagree with you that simply wanting to change is enough. It's not."

"I wouldn't want you to change. I wouldn't want anyone to change, just to make themselves more like what they think someone else wants them to be. That's why wanting to change is enough. Wanting to be better is enough. If it's right, the right person...the right person will love you anyway."

"You don't think I'm capable of love."

John laid his forearm across his eyes and didn't answer.

"My body produces dopamine and norepinephine and phenylethylamine the same as yours does, John. I am as susceptible as you are to the biological drive to focus on one person. The receptors in my brain interpret these signals in the same way that the brains of humans have done for centuries. Is it because I'm not a slave to these impulses, that I don't further interpret them as a need to spill my seed into anything that holds still long enough, that you refuse to believe that I – that I am as capable of love as you are? Is oxytocin truly the only thing that can bond two people together, doctor?"

John let his arm fall away from his face. Moving as though in a dream, body and mind operating on separate planes, he pushed himself up with shaking arms. He stared at Sherlock through the gloom, utterly without words.

"This wasn't a wise idea. I'm sorry." Sherlock pushed himself farther away down the bed and wrapped his arms around his knees. "I knew it from the beginning. I shouldn't have allowed things to...transpire as they did."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock blinked at him. His face looked ancient and worn in the dark. "I can't change. Neither can you. This experiment is concluded. You had better call Mary."

"Mary..." The name felt strange on his lips and he frowned, remembering, and found himself shaking his head. "No. Sherlock, what...happened...what happened to me making you happy?"

"Don't, John."

"Don't what? Don't fight for you? You're breaking up with me and I don't get any say in it?"

Sherlock's head snapped back. He looked stunned. "I'm what?"

"Well, aren't you? What would you call this?"

It was Sherlock's turn to gape at him. Anger bubbled in John's chest, threatening to spill over. He breathed in deep through his nose, holding it in check the best he could.

When he spoke, his voice was tight. He held Sherlock's eyes, his hands fisted in the sheets. "This whole thing may have been your idea, Sherlock, but every step of the way you gave me an out. Did I ever take it?"

"No."

"No. So don't act like this is your decision to make alone."

Sherlock's fingers fanned up off his arms, stirring the too-dark shadows around him. "Maybe you weren't the one who needed the out. Maybe it's time I took one myself."

"Why?" John's voice rang through the heavy space between them, desperate. " _What happened to me making you happy?_ "

"I _saw_ the way you looked at her today!"

"Her – Mary?"

"Yes, _Mary._ You have never and will never look at me in that way. You have never and will never see me the way you see her."

John let out a frustrated curse and ran his hands through his hair, gripping hard at the back of his head, pain shooting through his skull. "You _don't make sense._ Now you _want_ me to want you, you'd _rather_ I want to fuck you? I thought it made sense this way, I thought it was the perfect solution. Sometimes I wondered how we'd got so lucky and then I couldn't help wondering if it was real or you'd just planned it. And now you're saying you wish I did want the one thing from you that you'd _never_ want to give?"

"I want," Sherlock leaned towards him, chest heaving, "I _want_ you to want me in every way you're capable of wanting a person. And _yes_ that means I'd rather deal with you wanting sex from me than with you wanting it from someone else. I want you to want me and need me as much as I do you. Me and no one else. Ever. _That's_ what I want, John Watson."

"Sherlock. That's. Not. Possible."

"I know."

Eyes locked, they didn't blink or breathe, and when the church bell down the street began to toll the hour it seemed wrong, unforgivably wrong, that time had continued on without them.

John felt crushing pain and looked down to see their hands clasped together, knuckles turning white. He tugged on Sherlock's hand. "Come on."

Sherlock eyed him warily.

"Please? C'mere, Sherlock."

He came willingly enough, though his eyes were guarded, his movements precise; prepared for flight. John wrapped his arms around him and pulled him down, laid them down with their heads both on John's pillow. After a minute he felt Sherlock start to melt, and within another minute they were wrapped up in each other, breathing the other's air. Sherlock extracted one hand – slowly, slowly – and rested the tips of his fingers against John's chest. Seeking solace in his heartbeat.

"I know that you don't truly understand me," Sherlock said at last, speaking over John when he tried to object. "In some ways you do, yes, obviously. I wouldn't put up with you if you didn't. But you've only your own experience to draw on and while you may be of above average intelligence--"

"Would you get to the point?" John squeezed his wrist, thumb stroking his pulse point, too on edge to listen to Sherlock's evaluation of his mental acuity.

Sherlock pulled his hand out of John's grip. "If I had any say in the matter, sex would cease to exist; be taken out of the human equation entirely. Obviously, that's an impossibility and even voicing such a desire is ridiculous. But I'm trying to make you understand. I did what I did, the other night, for you. To please you. I put aside my own hardwired, innate preferences, and I did so _for you._ And yes, I know – you didn't ask me to, I'm not blaming you and I don't regret the action. Except in that it has apparently made you feel as though you have the right to define me – redefine me – based on that action."

John frowned, tucking his arm under his pillow to prop his head up, searching Sherlock's face. "When did I do that?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his body tensing once more. "What do you mean, 'when'?"

"I mean…when? You're talking like you think I'll start, you know, _expecting_ things from you, when you were the one who _offered_ tonight."

Sherlock sat up, John followed. "You said that the fact that I had provided release for you negated my non-sexual preferences. You _said_ that, out loud and to my face. I did not mishear you." As John continued to gape at him, Sherlock set his teeth and ground out, "I referred to myself as non-sexual, you replied, 'After you jerked me off two weeks ago? Hardly.'"

"Christ – is _that_ what…oh, God, Sherlock…I was angry, I didn't--"

"You are usually adept at keeping yourself in check," Sherlock said, still wary, holding himself stiff and distant. "You're not one to say things you don't mean, even in anger."

"Well…ok, yeah, but…you're taking my words out of context, I didn't mean--"

"You had better tell me what it was you _did_ mean."

John stared at him, shame twisting at his heart. He blew out a long breath, looking down at his hands. "I don't know," he said finally. "I'm not sure. I'm not sure what I meant. It's just – this is hard for me, Sherlock. I literally _cannot comprehend_ going through life not feeling…what I feel. But I'm _trying_ , all right? I thought I'd got my head around it until the other night. Which was great, by the way, I'm not saying that I…er…well."

Sure his face was glowing red in the darkness, he risked a glance up at Sherlock to see his flatmate staring at him, a puzzled line between his brows, hanging on every word with that familiar intensity.

John swallowed, licked his lips, and decided to risk it, "I mean, it's not as though I haven't been thinking about it and…wondering…if it'd happen again."

"I have tried to offer," Sherlock said softly. "But the timing has been inconvenient."

"Yeah. I know. And…I don't even know how I'd feel about it, anyway. I don't know why you did it the first time, why it was ok that night after you've been so clear on not wanting it at all."

They were silent for several long minutes before Sherlock's spoke, his voice a low rumble of urgency. "I want you to stay with me."

John blinked, taken aback. "What's that supposed to mean?"

For once Sherlock did not seem impatient at having to explain himself. "It means that you could leave at any time and find someone else who would suit you, in some ways, better than me."

"So you're bribing me to stay with sexual favours?"

Sherlock blinked, then his eyes went distant and thoughtful. After a pause, he nodded. "Yes, I suppose I am."

"Sherlock…" John stared at him, mouth going dry, "That's…not healthy."

"How is this different from the conversation we had two weeks ago? I provide for your wants, and you do mine. Reciprocity. You're being hypocritical."

"I am? Oh, that's just – _you_ are the one claiming to be one way and acting another."

Sherlock's face was, for a moment, ablaze with frustration and rage. But John blinked and the expression vanished, replaced by icy stillness. Sherlock unfolded himself from the bed and stalked to the door. He seemed on point of simply leaving, but then he turned, ramrod straight and framed in the faint light from the kitchen.

"You claim to be heterosexual," Sherlock said. John simply stared at him. "And yet two weeks ago you were only too happy to 'get off' at my hand. Kissing me as you did, if I recall."

"Sherlock, what's--"

“And then last night. I _heard_ you. I know what you were doing, and I heard my name as you were doing it.”

“You --”

"Both textbook examples of homosexual acts, wouldn't you agree?"

"But--"

"No 'buts.' Your actions have spoken; you have been redefined. You are hereby homosexual."

John made a wordless sound of protest, bitten off when he finally heard what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock's grim smile as he watched John puzzle it out held no hint of enjoyment, and John didn't stop him as he turned again and left the room.

John stayed in bed, arms wrapped around his knees, too agitated to sleep and too unsure to join Sherlock in the kitchen. His friend's staccato movements in the other room as he made himself a cup of tea jabbed at him, each scrape and clatter sounding like an accusation. The terrifying thought began knocking around his brain – _What if this is it? What if he doesn't come back this time._

Sherlock returned to the bedroom just as John had made up his mind. He was half-out of bed and Sherlock paused on the threshold. They hesitated, and then both began to speak at once.

"John, I don't think that--"

"Sherlock, I am _so_ sorry--"

Sherlock blinked and cleared his throat. "Ah. Go on."

"No, you--what were you saying?"

Sherlock advanced slowly into the room, and John lowered himself back to sit on the edge of the bed, waiting. Sherlock stopped in front of him, reaching out to graze his fingertips along John's temple. John let out a long, thin breath, blinking rapidly, pressing Sherlock's hand to his cheek and leaning into his touch.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry, I'm an idiot."

Sherlock sat down beside him, pressed tight against him, his voice rumbling deep in his chest as he murmured, "It's all right, nearly everyone is."

John began to laugh, relief turning him giddy, making words flow. "I get it, I think. You want to be with me, in spite of...and I...took advantage of it, of you, I mean, Sherlock, without realizing what...” John cleared his throat and looked imploringly at Sherlock, hoping that he was making any kind of sense. Sherlock's eyes were shining in the darkness, and John licked his lips and went on. “I wasn't thinking hard enough about it, I think, afraid of what I'd find if I examined it. I was just...happy. And afraid that would end if I looked too close at it and found it didn't make sense. So I was just letting actions and labels define what was going on to try and make it fit into something it wasn't...but I'm done with that now, if you'll forgive me, Sherlock.”

He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so uncomfortable, the last time words had seemed so awkward and insufficient. But when Sherlock blinked at him, nodded, and lifted one hand to caress John's cheek, all fear of failure and shortcoming dissipated and dissolved. John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's, his breath coming shallow, the thought of everything he'd almost lost, and the new, bone-deep understanding of how hard he'd fight to keep it, flooding his brain, making him tremble in Sherlock's arms.

The clock struck the hour twice more before they moved or spoke. And then it was Sherlock, pressing his palm flat against John's chest, shifting to look into his eyes. His tone held awe and a tinge of disbelief. "You love me."

John's heart tripped over itself and then started racing beneath Sherlock's hand – undoubtedly why it was there, to measure his reaction. John didn't blink. "Don't be stupid."

Sherlock's grin was sudden and unexpected, and he couldn't help but smile back. Sherlock slowly shook his head, their noses brushing together. "You continually surprise me."

"I know. I kind of like it."

"So do I, John."

"I also like how you say my name. I've never much cared for how it sounded, but you make it...nice."

Sherlock chuckled, the sound filtering in through the pores of John's skin, spreading and spreading until his veins seemed to run with that sound.

"Look," John said after another minute, lifting his hand to Sherlock's face, finding the scar under his lip with his thumb, "I know it doesn't really make sense, and I know that bothers you. But...can't we just...go with it, try and...I dunno...just wing it?"

Sherlock's nose wrinkled, his brows drawing down. "'Wing' it? What do you mean?"

"I mean, could you stop worrying about it and just let it happen, and believe me when I say I'm not going anywhere?"

"It seems to me that you're the one concerned with 'what this is.'"

"I'm curious, sure. But the fact that I can't describe it doesn't mean I don't want it. And I'm ok with that, so long as you can be ok with the fact that I'm going to look at women. But, just say it and looking is all it'll ever be, Sherlock. I can get by."

"I don't want you to simply 'get by.' I want you to be happy, and I want to be the one to make you happy."

"Ok. Well, you do."

"Obviously, not enough."

"Obvious to you, maybe. Because you're an idiot."

"How do you mean?"

A small voice in his head was chanting at him, _Oh God, oh God, what are you doing?_ But it was a very small voice, and he was able to silence it with relative ease. "I mean, would I really be here, with you, telling you that as long as you want me to I won't sleep with anyone, if I didn't think it was worth it?"

"...I guess not."

"I thought you never guessed?"

"I don't."

John grinned and saw the answering flash of Sherlock's teeth in the dark. Then there was a soft brush against his lips, and he sighed, feeling at last like the world might not be about to end.

Silence fell, and John could hear his own heart beating. Sherlock's hand was warm and steady on his chest, his breath a constant rise and fall that John's own lungs fell into rhythm with. By the time the church bells sang out one o'clock, he was asleep.


	3. On Any Given Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From their living room in Baker Street to the falls at Reichenbach, Sherlock remains, very sincerely, John's.

Sherlock received a text one morning that made him frown, and he didn't speak for the rest of the day. John went out after lunch and returned in the evening to find Sherlock just where he'd left him, wrapped in his dressing gown and curled down into the sofa, deep in thought. He didn't object when John turned on the telly; didn't seem to notice. Didn't respond when John said he was done in and going to bed. John shrugged and left a packet of crisps by Sherlock's elbow. The next morning they were gone and Sherlock was his usual irritating self, acting as though the previous twenty-four hours hadn't happened. Sherlock's latest fascination had him dragging John to the opera every evening he couldn't claim a prior engagement. This evening saw them crammed into a private booth where Sherlock was, as near as John could tell, conducting an experiment on whether snogging had an effect on John's enjoyment of the performance. The experiment was a success, and John forgot about Sherlock's odd silence of the day before.

\---

"I think the baby's got to be Danny's, don't you? Unless they've decided to pull a complete _deus ex machina,_ which I guess wouldn't surprise me either. God why do we watch this show, Sherlock? This has got to be the worst writing on television."

"Would you prefer arguing over Doctors and companions again?" Sherlock put his plate in the sink and came back out to the living room, dropping down onto the sofa and curling into a ball, eyes glued to the telly.

"God," John groaned and threw the Union Jack pillow at him. "No. I won't listen to any more slander against Amy Pond."

"You're a shining example of the demographic that idiot Moffat writes his show for. Just because you'd like to shag the Pond girl doesn't make her an interesting character."

John looked around for something else to throw. Finding nothing, he settled for grumbling, "And just because you'd like to snog Matt Smith doesn't make him a good actor."

Sherlock tore his eyes from the screen and looked coolly over at him. "We see so differently on this matter that there's no reason to discuss it further. Until you can agree that I'm right and you're wrong, you may as well drop it."

John heaved an overdramatic sigh and shook his head. A few minutes and completely-improbable-plot-twists later, his mind drifted back to the phone call he'd overheard earlier and he asked, "Why'd you tell Lestrade you're busy? I didn't think you had anything on."

Sherlock shrugged. "I pointed him in the right direction, he won't need me for this one. And he's kept me running too much, of late. He's been relying on me and I've been allowing it."

John frowned, an odd warning shiver starting at the base of his spine. "Thought you liked that, how he's basically useless without you?"

Sherlock yawned and stretched like a cat, draping himself across the couch. "Not a very sustainable way to operate, do you think? I won't always be around and available to him."

"Are you planning to go somewhere?"

"Shh," Sherlock shushed him and pointed to the telly as the advertisement break ended and Danny made his dramatic re-entrance.

\---

John woke to the dip of the bed as Sherlock slid under the covers, fitting himself along John's back, tucking his knees up behind John's and wrapping an arm around his waist.

"S'wrong?" John mumbled, feeling for his hand.

"Nothing. Go back to sleep."

John struggled against his desire to do just that, but was already surfacing back to consciousness with worry not far behind. "You don't usually cling on to me when nothing's wrong."

"You don't have nearly enough data to make that claim."

"What can I do?"

"Nothing. I don't need anything from you."

John let out an impatient sigh and buried his face in the pillow again, done with the conversation, and, now that he was fully awake, trying not to be. Sherlock stayed wrapped around him.

\---

Sherlock was standing in the living room, eyes closed, swaying to the music that was pouring from his violin, flooding the flat with notes so high and sweet and lovely that John felt tears start to prick behind his eyes. A deep vibrato rumbled through the floor, shifting the whole world beneath his feet. He stood still in the doorway. He couldn't bring himself to move further in or put down his bag or take off his coat; couldn't bear to break into this moment. He stood and watched and listened until Sherlock drew the bow across the strings on a final, quivering note that hovered in John's ears long after Sherlock had brought bow and violin to rest by his sides. Then John did all those things; he took off his coat and shoes and put down the shopping bag and closed the door. Sherlock didn't move. John came to stand beside him and gently squeezed his wrist. Sherlock's pulse was racing, veins cording out all up his forearm. Then Sherlock stirred, and smiled, and was suddenly speaking _presto allegro_ about the case he'd just solved to the Kreutzer Sonata.

\---

Sherlock took to keeping his phone tucked into his pocket at all times.

John didn't notice for awhile. He'd never been the sort to poke around in someone else's phone without permission, so it took him awhile to miss the sight of it lying about on the end table or the arm of his chair or tucked into the cushions on the couch; took him awhile to miss the sound of it chiming followed by Sherlock's imperious command to _Pass me my phone._ The realisation came one day when they were in a deathly silent library and he heard the thing vibrate. The detective pulled it out, replied to the text, and slipped it back into his pocket without comment.

After that John couldn't stop noticing. And he couldn't remember if Sherlock used to get so many text messages as he seemed to now.

At first he thought they were from Lestrade – Sherlock continued, as he had weeks ago, to put him off as often as not – but then one afternoon they were in his office at the Yard and the texts continued to come in. _I hope I'm not_ interrupting _you,_ Lestrade had said, hands braced on his hips in irritated fists. Sherlock, not looking up from his phone, had let the DI know that, whatever he may think about the case, it was far from being the most _interesting_ thing that Sherlock had on at the moment.

“So what is it you’re working on?” John asked him that night as they sat at their laptops across from each other.

Sherlock didn’t look up. “I only told Lestrade that to get him to stop wasting my time.”

“No, you didn’t. You’ve been working on something for weeks now, and you never talk about it. What’s going on?”

Sherlock sighed and began typing furiously, not answering him.

“Not sure what I expected,” John grumbled, closing his own computer with a snap and standing stiffly, going into the kitchen where he'd left his phone lying on the counter.

He'd had a text from Mary, earlier that day. Two hopeful words, _Dinner later?_ The Yard had finally released the details of the case to the press and the scandal had been making headlines the past two days. John had dug her card out of the kitchen junk drawer where he'd tossed it the morning after she'd given it to him and rung her up to see how she was managing. She'd sounded tired but happy to hear from him.

_Sorry it's so late. Too late? Dinner sounds great._

He'd barely had time to rinse out his coffee mug and before his phone beeped at him.

_Not too late at all._

He didn't bother telling Sherlock he was going out, as his flatmate (or whatever he was) was hunched over his computer like the fate of the world rested squarely on his WPM.

It wasn't until they were being served dessert and John slipped his phone from his pocket, intending to check the time, that he saw the text from Sherlock. It was timestamped perhaps a quarter of an hour after he left the flat.

_There's nothing more infuriating than looking up halfway through a conversation to discover you've left. Do you want to know what I've been working on or not?_

They left the restaurant not long after, still laughing over the waitress's case of the giggles.

“I expect you get that all the time, the famous Doctor John Watson and all.”

“Oh, believe me, I don't...get...”

“Don't get...?” Mary prompted, then looked up and said simply, “Oh.”

Sherlock was standing on the pavement, holding open the door of a cab.

“Oh,” Sherlock said as though continuing her sentence, “don't let me interrupt.”

Mary looked up at John, squeezing his arm. “Thanks for dinner.”

He didn't try to stop her as she released him and walked toward Sherlock, nodding to him as she slid into the cab. He closed the door behind her and clasped his hands behind his back as it drove off.

“Did you have a good evening, John?”

The noise of the street behind them seemed muffled and otherworldly. John shrugged. Sherlock lifted his arm for another cab.

“Sherlock -”

“Yes?” Sherlock stopped but didn't turn.

A car pulled up to the curb. Sherlock waved him on but the cabby opened his door and stepped out, one foot in the street, waiting for them.

John ignored the cabby. He stepped up to Sherlock, touched his arm. “I can't do this.”

Sherlock stiffened, his shoulders hunching up towards his ears.

“No,” John started before Sherlock could speak, then just ask quickly lost his nerve. “I mean...”

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock's voice rumbled in his chest.

“No, shut up, you don't,” John shook him lightly. “You've no idea what I'm about to say, you never do.”

Sherlock turned to face him, one eyebrow arched, waiting.

John took a deep breath. “I said...I said that I would wait for you to ask me not to see anyone else. But...I can't. I can't do this anymore. Sherlock if we're going to be...whatever it is we are...it's got to be only you and me.”

John blinked and looked down at his shoes, breath leaving him in a rush. He felt as though he was floating, a feeling like being drunk and being shot at all at once. He pulled himself together and straightened like a soldier coming to attention. “I hope that's all right with you.”

He finally dared to look up at Sherlock. It wasn't a trick of the light and it wasn't his imagination; for just the slightest fraction of a second, he saw Sherlock beaming at him like he'd just proved the Riemann hypothesis.

“I'ma drive on, lads, if you don't need a lift.” The cabbie was looking between them, smirking, but John didn't care.

“C'mon, then,” John said, reaching for Sherlock's hand.

The cab was cool and smelled of menthol. They sat very close together on the bench seat, thighs pressed together but not otherwise touching.

“I've something to tell you,” Sherlock said, bending to speak into John's ear. “I was holding back because I didn't have a plan. But I do, now. And I'm afraid you won't like it.”

“Where to, lads?” The Cabbie asked.

Sherlock looked up, his eyes narrowing to slits, his whole posture changing. He took a deep breath in through his nose and licked his lips, eyes flitting from the back of the Cabbie's head, to the rearview mirror, to the handles on the doors. John tensed, recognizing Sherlock recognizing danger.

“Where to?” The cabbie repeated.

“Oh,” Sherlock said, taking John's hand, “I think you know.”

Afterwards, John wasn't quite able to say what happened. He remembered a tug on his arm – Sherlock, in all likelihood – and a terrible shock accompanied by an awful banging, crunching sound. Then pain and bright lights, and a low voice assuring him that everything would be fine if he could just bring himself to hold it together; not to be silly.

\---

“Idiots.”

“They're not idiots, Sherlock, they're professionals.”

“Professional idiots.”

They were standing in a hospital corridor, the lights long since dimmed, visiting hours over. John was banged up from the car wreck, they were keeping him overnight but in all likelihood releasing him tomorrow. Sherlock had escaped relatively unscathed. Physically, as least; his emotional state was something only to be guessed at.

Lestrade might have his private suspicions, but they had little place here. “Why should they let you in the room with him anyway, they don't know you from Adam.” Sherlock snorted and continued to pace. Lestrade threw caution to the wind, tucking his hands into his coat pockets and saying gruffly, “It's not like you're married."

Sherlock's reaction wasn't quite the howling protest Lestrade had expected. "Of course we're not married. Why would I commit to something so antiquated and foolish as that?"

"As saying out loud that you love someone and then putting it in writing? Yeah, real foolish, that." Lestrade stepped into Sherlock's path, interrupting his best efforts to wear a track in the standard-issue lino. "Lad, I knew you for five years before he came along. For your own sake, try and keep him around a bit longer, yeah?"

Sherlock stood very still, staring intently into Lestrade's eyes, giving him the distinct impression he was coming to a decision about something. Trying to shake off the sudden, mad idea that Sherlock was about to ask him to be groomsman or godfather or Lord know what else, Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest and gazed levelly back at the mad detective.

“Lestrade,” he said at last, “I need to go away for awhile.”

“You – all right. Ok, where and for how long?”

Sherlock finally looked away. “The car wreck. The _accident._ ”

“The one that nearly killed you both.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock licked his lips. “It wasn't an accident.”

“How do you mean.” Lestrade had the sinking feeling in his gut that told him quite distinctly that he did not actually want to know.

When Sherlock spoke, it was one word that confirmed his impression. “Moriarty.”

Lestrade rocked back on his heels. “The reason you've been giving me the cold shoulder lately, eh?”

“He's after me, through any channel he thinks he can control.”

“Flattering.”

“Is it?”

“The Breyson case. Flattering, to think I matter enough to you to be worth manipulating.”

Sherlock's eyes flashed.

“And today. Was the wreck meant for you, or...”

“Or for John. Precisely.”

Lestrade looked down when he felt a firm touch to his wrist. Sherlock produced a file from inside his coat, and pressed it into Lestrade's hands.

“Take this, and keep it with you at all times. Don't leave it at the Yard and don't lock it up anywhere, no matter how strong the locks seem to you. And _don't_ tell any of your team about it.”

“You think I have a leak in my department?”

“I think that Moriarty's reach is farther than we know.” Sherlock had released the file but not Lestrade. His grasp on the DI's arm was unwavering. “And I believe,” he continued, “that this time his reach has exceeded his grasp.”

Sherlock at last released him and stepped back. “I'll be gone in the morning. I don't know where, so don't try to work it out. I'll need to keep on the move to discover all I can about his network. I'll keep you informed, but don't try to follow me or discover where I am.”

“You...and John?”

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, down the hall to where his flatmate rested. “Unlikely.”

“Unlikely? Unlikely he'd forgive you if you left him, too.” Lestrade laughed, but sobered quickly. “He doesn't know any of this, does he?”

“I have...kept him in the dark, yes. I'd intended to tell him tonight.”

“I see. Good timing, that. But you'll explain everything; you'll tell him and take him with you, now.”

“Only if he's well enough, and if he wants to go.”

Lestrade snorted. “Please. For _my_ sake, this time, take him with you. I'll not have a moment's rest if you leave him here.”

Sherlock looked grim. “It would be incredibly dangerous.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes, leafing through the file on the enigma who called himself Moriarty. “In spite of all the danger, he'd follow you to hell and back. You don't deserve him, Sherlock Holmes, but you've got him, so try not to fuck it all up, eh?"

Sherlock didn't respond, and Lestrade understood the time for joking was over. He tucked the file under his arm, and reached out to clasp Sherlock's hand. "Good luck, lad," he said, his voice gruff. "Godspeed."

 

_3 May – three months later. Meiringen, Switzerland_

 

“Wouldn't've thought," John mumbled as he tipped himself into his bed, fumbling with the blankets and just ending up hopelessly tangled, "Switzerland was known for the wine. But that was...that was good. M'almost glad that bastard chased us out of London, f'only for this."

Sherlock watched him from the shadows, leaning against the wall by the door, smiling to see his flatmate - his friend, his lover, his everything left in the world - losing the battle with the duvet.

"You invaded Afghanistan," he said finally, peeling himself off the wall and padding across the room to him, "but you can't even make it into bed."

"Oh ho, you're hilarious, you are." John glared good-naturedly up at him, freeing one arm and tugging at a corner of the duvet, holding it up to Sherlock. "You _could_ help."

Sherlock blinked. So did John. And then he grinned. Looking shy, somehow. Eager and shy and...well...intoxicated. It was...

...Sherlock felt a twist behind his ribs that was nothing short of painful. He glanced at the clock on the wall and wondered suddenly if he could just tear it down, smash it to bits against the floor and stop the second hand from ticking, if he could only stop the progress of time...

...it didn't bear thinking about. So rather than waste the time they had he took the edge of the blanket from John and lifted it, unwrapping John as he went until he could slide in beneath it. Next to John. Pressed against John. Enveloped in him. John had been sleeping in this bed, under these blankets, for the better part of a week, and he could pick out seven separate smells that made up an olfactory profile – shampoo, hair creme, soap, sweat, deodorant, ejaculate (when had he found time for  _that?_ ), and the laundry soap they had shared at home in Baker Street (very, very faint, that; they'd been away for quite some time) – that drew a picture in his mind so clear that when he closed his eyes he could  _see_  those smells, could taste and touch and wrap himself in  _John_  and the sensation of being surrounded by  _John_  was almost too much for him. He turned his face away, drawing fresh air into his lungs in long, desperate drags. He shouldn't be doing this. 

John's arm slid around his waist, pulling him close. He felt both their hearts pick up tempo as John nuzzled against his neck, humming softly as he held him tight. 

"Actually," Sherlock heard his own voice say, "the Swiss are quite proficient vintners. But as less than two percent of the wine they produce is exported, it's not surprising you haven't experienced it before."

John chuckled, lips brushing Sherlock's neck as he asked, "How th'hell d'you know that?" 

Sherlock suppressed a small shudder as John's breath caressed his skin. "Wikipedia."

John blinked sluggishly, trying valiantly to raise himself up on one elbow, getting about halfway there. "You takin' the piss?"

Sherlock flashed a grin, looking up at John, enjoying the view from this angle, memorizing the way John's neck looked from below. "When I was at university I conducted extensive research on the effects of decomposing human flesh in the surrounding soil on several varieties of fruit. I spent the summer in this hotel, actually, testing grapes."

John shuddered and burrowed in beside him once more, his hand flexing against Sherlock's chest. "Think I liked the other answer better."

"I can almost certainly assure you that there were no corpses involved in the production of the wine you enjoyed tonight." The tick of the clock was too loud in the silence so he added, knowing very well what John had been drinking as he had ordered it for him himself, "Unless you were drinking the Rouvinez Malbec."

John choked, then lifted his hand to bat clumsily at Sherlock's head. "You miserable wanker," he croaked, nearly knocking Sherlock out of bed in his drunken attempts at retaliation. Sherlock laughed, sudden and wild, and held on to him, wrapping his fingers around John's wrist and rolling half on top of him to hold him still.

And then John was looking up at him with eyes blown wide with surprise and – yes, there it was – desire, his lips parting on a soft breath that might have contained Sherlock's name, chest rising and falling shallowly. Sherlock stared at him openly, greedily, suddenly desperate to memorize this, too. With trembling fingers on the back of his neck, John pulled at him, bringing their faces very close together.

_This,_ The words blazed in his mind as all other thought, all other data, greyed out and fell away, _This is the way to stop time._

Except for the ticking of the clock and the dull roar of the falls, he might have believed it, too. 

Sherlock ducked his head and John's lips found his temple, instead. He squeezed his eyes closed, painful sparks exploding in the black behind his lids, and tightened his hold on John's wrist until he felt his friend wince, a soft puff of breath on his cheek saying clearly,  _You're hurting me._

And  _yes,_  good _God,_ it did hurt.

He relaxed his grip on John. He let go the breath from his lungs. He lifted himself off of John and opened his eyes. 

"If you'd like," he said into the silence surrounding them, "I could run a test on the wine. If you were worried about what's in it."

"There was  _something_  in it," John said with an attempt at a smile, stroking Sherlock's cheek with the tips of his fingers before letting his hand fall away from him. 

Sherlock's eyes slipped closed, committing to his hard drive the feel of John's touch on his skin. He lay down, his back to John, that  _thing_  in his chest twisting and twisting until each breath became a struggle. In his pocket, he curled his hard around his phone, thumb caressing the keypad. 

_The falls are lovely at dawn. Meet me there, my dear. And I would be so very jealous if you were to bring anyone along with you to our reunion, I really wouldn't be responsible for my actions. Xoxo Jim_

_What more can you possibly have to say to me that you haven't already expressed with bombs and bullets and that really pathetic attempt at a car wreck? SH_

_I need to see you alone, Sherlock. As I see it, there are two ways of accomplishing that. Will you come?_

_Dawn. SH_

_Alone?_

_Alone. SH_

_Good boy. Oh, he's going to miss you so._

_Does that mean you're not going to go after him next? SH_

_And deprive myself of the pleasure of watching him at your funeral? Darling, you underestimate my schadenfreude._

_Is that a promise? SH_

_When the master is dead, why do I care about his dog? He's nothing. And boring. And not nearly so sexy as you._

_Dawn. SH_

\---

Sherlock stood on the tiny balcony to their room, watching the sky for the first tinge of dawn. 

Perhaps he'd been unwise. 

His only thought had been to escape London, to take John away from the madness of Moriarty's games. Since the madman's return he'd not felt a moment of true peace until they'd arrived here, to this tiny hotel in this lovely village that belonged to another time and place. In the days since their arrival he'd grown accustomed to the the constant din of the Reichenbach falls until the noise barely registered. Now it swelled to a cacophony that tried to crowd out all rational thought.

The text from Moriarty had come as they were ordering their dinner. John had been occupied with puzzling out the wine list and hadn't seen the blood drain from Sherlock's face, hadn't seen the way his hands shook as tapped out a reply. And he hadn't questioned Sherlock as he'd ordered a bottle of the best wine in the house, pouring glass after glass for John and drinking none himself. Perhaps he knew, anyway. Perhaps it was Sherlock who was blind; perhaps John had suspected all along that it would come to this. Sherlock hoped not. Desperately. John trusted him. And that was precious. 

Certainly, he'd been unwise. He could have worked harder to keep John safe. Or he could have left him behind, as he had Lestrade, and trusted that Moriarty would follow him and leave the both of them alone. But no. He'd been selfish. He was always selfish, always had been; but this was different. This hurt. 

Shuffling footsteps behind him stiffened his spine, his hands curling around the cold metal railing. He didn't turn.  _No, no, no._

John's warm breath ghosted across the back of his neck, smelling of wine and sleep and a parting of the ways; a friendship that would very likely end with the rising sun.

Strong arms slid around his waist, wrapping the duvet from the bed around both of them, John's cheek coming to rest on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock turned his head, lips brushing John's temple.

When John spoke, his voice was thick with sleep and the residual effects of the Malbec. "You left."

Sherlock nodded, feeling emptied of all words, nothing to say that would be worth the saying. It was almost dawn.

John continued when he didn't speak, sounding hesitant and, Sherlock was nearly certain, awed. "Dreamt I wanted to kiss you. Woke up and it was still true."

Sherlock exhaled sharply, reaching down to twine his fingers with John's. 

John squeezed his hand and held Sherlock tighter, mumbling into his shoulder, "Think we should talk 'bout this."

Sherlock closed his eyes but could not black out the streak of paling violet he'd seen on the horizon. He nodded slowly. "In the morning," he agreed. "Go back to sleep, John."

\---

John knew what was in the envelope the moment the hotel manager handed it to him. Sherlock's phone. The world went white and the blood rushing in his ears like a hundred thousand gallons of water per second drowned out every other sense.

Though his fingers were clumsy on the unfamiliar buttons, he quickly found what he knew Sherlock had intended him to find. A series of texts to a blocked number, and the draft of an email addressed to him, dated that morning.

_My dear John,_

_Even as I write this I know what you would be telling me, if you knew what I was about to do. That I should hold out hope that you will never read this, that I will return before you are even awake to know I've gone. You would mean it kindly, too, and I would nod and say 'Of course, John,' but I would not follow your advice. I'm not like you, my friend. I go to meet my adversary with no thought of what might come after, because that is how it has to be. Do you see? I'm afraid that you don't._

_If this is the final act of my career, it's more than I could ever have hoped to achieve. Or maybe you'll prefer this: It is a far, far better thing that I do now, than I have ever done before. Now do you see? I can't think of any possible future because Moriarty is in many ways my equal or superior and all my attention must be with this moment, now._

_I put all my affairs in order before we left London. Mycroft will see that everything is handled properly. Most likely he is already on his way to collect you and whatever remains of me. The documentation I've already gathered along with the file I just sent Lestrade should be more than sufficient to begin shutting down the various branches of Moriarty's network, once the man himself is no longer a player in this great game of ours. You'll want to be vigilant, of course, but I'm certain you will be in no danger, now._

_I've delayed longer than I should have and nothing else remains to say, beyond that I hope you believe me to be, my friend,_

_Very sincerely yours. SH_

**Author's Note:**

> Titles from [this song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A8n7PfsoJf4) by Carbon Leaf
> 
> Special thanks to ImpishTubist for betaing, cheerleading, and continuing (almost a year since I posted the last installment!) to pester me about finishing this <3 AND to all of YOU READERS who continue to comment, leave kudos, and swell my ego. It's mostly because of you that I'm finally getting around to posting this :)


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